


give me bread, but give me roses too

by UntoldDepths



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Robin (Comics)
Genre: Bad Parents Jack and Janet Drake, Gen, Sensory Overload, Vomiting, give this boy all the love he deserves, mild panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:22:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28822905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UntoldDepths/pseuds/UntoldDepths
Summary: Tim's just got over a flu when his parents drag him to a gala. A fun time is not had by all.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 160





	give me bread, but give me roses too

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a brainstorming session in the C&C discord.
> 
> thanks to nevertickleasleepinggay (I hope I got that right) for being my cheer-reader/beta-reader.

Tim hadn't wanted to go to the gala. He'd just gotten over a cold and would rather spend the time catching up on missed homework. Don't get him wrong, it had been great having his parents around and he wanted to spend as much time with them as possible before they went away on their next dig.

He just doesn't like galas.

But his Dad had stuffed him into a tuxedo, his Mom had licked his hair flat and now he's staring at the bright lights pouring out of Wayne Manor. Not even Robin could make this night better.

"Chin up, Timothy," his mother says as the car comes to a stop. "You have to show everyone here what it means to be a Drake."

The valet opens the door and she climbs out, elegant and regal as ever. Tim scoots out after her, clumsy with his short legs and lingering dizziness. His Dad walks around from the other side and stands with them. The press photographers take that as their cue and snap photos of the three of them. The blinding flash assaults Tim’s senses and leaves him blinking spots out of his eyes.

"Come along, Timothy," his mother snaps while Tim's still trying to reorient himself "Other people need to get out of their cars too, you know."

Abruptly, Tim realises they're walking towards the doors without him, and he hurries to catch up with them. "Coming, mother."

"Jack and Janet, so glad you could make it," the gala host, Bruce Wayne, _the Batman himself_ , is saying when Tim slides into place behind his parents. "You're always out of Gotham, it seems. Vacationing?"

"No, no, Brucie," his father says with a chuckle. The fakeness rattles around in Tim's ears, making him feel like his skull is still somewhat like an upturned fishbowl: the second worst part about catching a cold. "It's all business, I'm afraid. Archaeology digs. Not that you'd know anything about that, hey?"

"I dabbled a little while travelling. What about you, son," Mr Wayne asks, looking directly at Tim, "Do you like going around the world with your parents?"

Tim stiffens, not sure how he should answer the question. But he doesn't have to; his Mum gets there first.

"Timothy doesn't come with us on digs. He stays at school most the time. He's top of his class, you know. His teachers are talking about moving him up."

Tim's teachers have been talking about moving him up a grade for years, but his parents never allow it. If anyone bothered to ask him, Tim would move up in a heartbeat. His current classes are too easy and the other students childish.

"A good education is important," Mr Wayne says. "Well, Timothy, I hope you have fun tonight. Maybe you could find my boy, Jason, and keep him out of trouble, hm?"

Tim nods at the suggestion, even though he will absolutely not do that. Not only have his parents forbidden Tim from interacting with either Jason or Dick, but there's also no way Tim could. If he were to try to talk to Robin, either Robin, he would surely make an embarrassment of himself.

His parents head into the foyer and Tim rushes to follow them, realising he’d zoned out and missed most of what was happening. He winces when they enter the ballroom and has to fight not to curl into a ball and cover his head. The lights are too bright; there's too much noise, all of it competing; all the women are wearing bright colours and sparkly jewellery; and there's a nauseating mix of smells and scents.

Tim would find it difficult to deal with the abundant and clashing inputs even when he was completely healthy. Fatigued from his flu, he has no chance of withstanding it.

"-Timothy, our son," his mother is saying and Tim snaps to attention. It wouldn't do to be caught zoning out, or he'd be in a world of trouble.

"Look at you, so dashing and all grown up," the woman his mother is talking to coos, bending down and getting in Tim's face. "How old are you now? Eight?"

"Timothy turned nine last month," his father says, to the approval of their audience.

Tim scowls and looks away. He'd turned eleven three months ago. His parents had been away on a dig and hadn't even called until three weeks later.

"So grown up," the woman says, pinching Tim's cheek before he can even see her hand reaching out. Tim flinches, stepping back and putting himself out of grabbing reach.

"Timothy!" his mother scolds him, stepping closer. Someone knocks into Tim's back and he breaks, fleeing the scene and stammering apologies as he goes.

When he comes back to himself enough to see where he’s ended up, he finds himself in a dim corridor far away from the party and there’s a tightness in his chest. Chances are he isn't supposed to be in this part of the manor.

"Are you okay?" a voice asks from behind him, and Tim spins around in a panic, desperately trying to get more air into his lungs. Jason Todd is standing there, one arm reaching out. Tim flinches when he sees it, unable to suppress the reflex in his state. Jason stops and frowns, a furrow forming in his brow that Tim can't usually see under the domino mask. But Jason _does_ lower his hand. "I just want to help you, you don't look so good," Jason says. The sound seems to echo and Tim hates it, hates the way it grates on his ears.

Frustration wells up inside Tim unexpectedly. "I'm fine!" Tim snaps, louder and harsher than he wanted and taking all the air he'd managed to claw back. He tries to breathe in but can't. His chest aches and he tries to breathe in but _can't_. In and in and in _again_ but he can't he can't hecan't _breathe_.

"-five and hold. In-" Tim dimly registers Jason talking, counting, the numbers washing in and out of his hearing as he continues to struggle to breathe. "Hold. Out, two, three-" Eventually, Tim's breathing syncs with Jason's counting and he finally feels like there's enough air in his lungs. "There you go," Jason says.

"Thanks," Tim murmurs. "I'm alright now, you don't have to sit and babysit me."

"Kid, you just ran outta there and had a panic attack. There's no way I'm going to leave you alone right now. Wanna tell me what set it off?"

There was no way Tim wanted to tell Jason what set him off. No way he wanted to tell _Robin_ something so embarrassing, tell him how pathetic Tim was that he couldn't handle a bit of bright lights and loud noise. His parents-

"Well how about we go find your parents, then. Ask them to take you home," Jason suggests. The words land like a bucket of ice water is tipped on Tim's head. He feels cold and nauseous and a bit like he's sweating. Mostly, he feels hyper-aware of how mad his parents must be, that he ran off on them like that.

"Hey, hey!" Jason snaps, too loud and like ice picks directly into his ear drums. Tim flinches and shoves his hands over his ears, trying to block out all the sound. He thinks he hears Jason swear, but sound is successfully muffled enough he could have said ‘yip yip’ for all he knows. It's getting hard to breathe again.

Jason's hands appear in Tim's field of vision and Tim freezes reflexively: Jason must be incredibly close, with how Tim's curled up into a ball and looking at his crossed legs. But Jason doesn't touch him, just moves his hands so Tim can see, pushing them together slowly then drawing them apart again. He repeats the pattern over and over and Tim finds himself mesmerized by it. Eventually, his breathing synchronises with the pattern and he's able to remove his hands from his ears and uncurl. He looks up to find Jason as far away as it's possible for him to be - which isn't very - and scooting back further.

"Sorry," Tim gasps. "I'm so sorry, you shouldn't have to deal with me like that. You should go back to the gala." He waits, knowing Jason's either going to leave or try to take Tim back to the gala with him, and neither option seems pleasant right now.

A door down the hall opens, letting light and sound into their spot. Some rich man laughs loudly and obnoxiously and Jason pulls a face. Tim's face itches and he can feel sweat dripping down his cheek.

"I just said I'm not going to leave you, didn't I?" Jason asks. He sounds kind of angry, but he's also using the voice Robin uses to comfort young children. So Tim has no idea what to think. "Come on, let's go get that cheek cleaned up before you drip blood onto your shirt. Mrs Livingstone shouldn't pinch kids' cheeks if her nails are that sharp. I'm so glad most of them don't want to pinch my cheeks. Kind of sucks that the reason they don't is they think I'm a dirty street rat and probably contagious, though."

Tim abruptly realises he's holding onto his cheek and pulls his hand away, staring at his bloody fingers. He also realises he'd followed Jason's nattering into a bathroom, standing and walking without conscious input. "I think I made myself bleed," he says, thoughts feeling slow and syrupy. "I usually keep my nails short so it takes effort, but I've been sick so they grew."

"Do you self harm?" Jason asks. He's not even looking at Tim, just digging around under the sink. Tim catches a glimpse of bottles and containers before Jason pulls out a large first aid kit and closes the door. Jason catches him staring. "This is the closest bathroom to the family sitting room. Between Bruce's extreme sports and Dick's acrobatics, it makes sense to have medical supplies in here. Do you self harm? I'm not going to judge, but you said you keep your nails short 'so it takes effort'. I'm just worried."

"I'm not depressed or emo or anything," Tim explains. He feels fingers at his cheek again and wrenches the hand down into his lap, grasping his wrist with his other hand to keep it there this time.

"Sure," Jason says, but Tim's not certain he's agreeing. "I need to turn the light on to see, is that ok?"

Tim squeezes his eyes shut and nods. A moment later there's a click and the lights come on, painting the back of his eyelids red. It's still too much, but not as bad as the ballroom was. Jason keeps up a patter, narrating what he's doing and explaining why. It's the same first aid technique Tim's done for himself a hundred times so he doesn't really _need_ Jason to say it. But it's nice just to have that voice keep talking to him lowly, something to focus on without being too much, a reminder he's not alone, and a warning when Jason's about to touch him. So Tim says nothing, just sits there while Jason cleans his cheek and declares it not too bad.

The light clicks off when Jason's done and Tim pries his eyes open again. "Thanks," he says, feeling inexplicably worn out and tired. "Are we going back to the gala, now?"

"Nah," Jason says after a beat too long. "I'm not sure you could handle it. And I'm not done with you."

"Oh," Tim says. He allows Jason to lead him out of the bathroom and down the hall, following obediently but making it clear he won't let Jason hold his hand.

"Here," Jason says, holding open a door and pointing into the room beyond. "The library's quiet and we shouldn't be interrupted."

Tim walks in and looks around, admiring the books and wondering where Jason wants him.

"What are you waiting for?" Jason asks. Tim turns to see him sitting on one side of a lounge and patting the cushion next to him. "You must be exhausted. Come put your head in my lap and we can talk about what happened."

“I don’t really want to,” Tim says. But he does sit down in the armchair closest to Jason.

“You don’t want to talk about it?” Jason asks, slowly.

“I don’t want to put my head in your lap,” Tim explains.

“Stranger Danger, right. Good idea.”

“You’re not a stranger!” Tim blurts out. “You’re-” He slaps a hand over his traitorous mouth before he can finish that thought. When he thinks he can trust himself, he lets go and tries again, calmer. “I don’t like touch. It makes my skin crawl and then everything becomes too much and…”

“That’s what happened tonight?” Jason asks. “Mrs Livingstone pinched your cheek and you panicked?”

Tim shakes his head glumly. “It was already too much. The lights and sound and stuff. The cheek was just the last straw.” He sobs as something occurs to him. “My parents are going to be so mad. They say I’m too old for this. That everybody has to deal with things they don’t like and I should be able to deal with this too. They’re going to be so mad. They’ll probably lock me in the basement again for this.”

“There is _so much_ wrong with that.” Jason says vehemently. Then he swears, loudly, and Tim thinks he’s going to end up panicking again. But Jason stops before it gets too much and Tim finds he’s okay. “That’s not okay, kid. Your parents shouldn’t treat you like that. They’re supposed to love and protect you.”

“Tim,” Tim says. “My name is Tim Drake. And it’s not like they abuse me or anything. They’re not around often enough to abuse me, anyway.”

“That’s its own kind of abuse,” Jason sighs, “But whatever. It’s perfectly ok if you can’t deal with lights or noises or whatever. You know where I come from?”

“Batman found you in Crime Alley,” Tim says. “You were trying to steal his tyres, so he brought you here.”

Jason narrows his eyes and Tim thinks he might have messed up there. “Disturbing, but true. One of my old babysitters, a neighbour, she’s autistic. She can’t deal with loud noises or bright lights or certain textures or colours. It’s not bad, she just had to learn how to live around it. You can learn to live around it too. Say no to things you don’t like and don’t let anyone force you to do something that will hurt you. Is that why you hurt yourself? Because it helps?”

“Not really,” Tim says. “I don’t realise I’m doing it. My skin itches so I scratch at it or dig my nails in, trying to replace one sensation with another, and then before I know it I’m bleeding.”

Jason doesn’t respond to that, just hums that he’s thinking. Tim waits him out, knowing how annoying it is when people push him to speak while he’s still processing. Suddenly, the library door burst open startling them both.

“Little Wing, you’re here!” Dick Grayson cries. This time when Tim can’t breathe, it’s because of excitement. Dick Grayson! Right in front of him!

“Dick!” Jason hisses, “Be quiet!” He slides off the lounge to crouch in front of Tim. “Are you alright, Tim? You need to breathe.”

Tim nods. “That’s Dick Grayson!” he gasps, eyes wide.

“What, you some kind of fan or something?” Jason teases, leaning back and standing up.

"Tim, right?" Dick asks. "Your parents are worried about you, you know. How about we stop hiding up here and go back down?"

"I don't think so," Jason bursts out, before Tim can think about his parents being worried about him. "Chances are, they're more worried about their reputation."

"Well we should rejoin the gala anyway. It's not good to hide away up here, Jay. You too, Tim," Dick says.

"It's too much," Tim says. He immediately claps his hands over his mouth. He hadn't meant to say that. Dick Grayson is his hero, and therefore the last person Tim wanted to know about his problem. "I mean, I-"

"So this is where you've been hiding." Tim looks up in surprise at the sound of his mother's voice. She's standing in the doorway and sounds extremely displeased. "Come along, Timothy. We can talk about how you embarrassed us after. For now, we need to return to the gala."

Tim nods and scoots off his chair. He follows her out of the library and down the hall back to the party. Instantly, it becomes too much for him; the lights and sounds giving him a headache he's going to be feeling for days.

"Chin up, Timothy," his mother says. Tim nods but doesn't raise his gaze from the floor. "You need to show that you're worthy of the Drake name. Stop this foolishness."

"Maybe you should take him home," someone else says. Someone big but with a soothing voice.

Tim looks up to see Bruce Wayne looking down at him, eyes full of concern. Uncomfortable, Tim averts his gaze down. He's sure Batman will be able to tell he's only looking at his chin, but it should satisfy his parents at least. His hands twitch at his side, but he manages to suppress the impulse to cover his face. Even if the constant inputs are starting to make him feel dizzy.

"Nonsense, Brucie," his dad barks. The sound cuts through all the rest of the noise assaulting Tim's senses, like Harley Quinn's hammer cuts through jelly. It takes all of Tim's effort not to throw up. "Timothy's just fine. Get something in him and he'll be right as rain." As if to prove his point, his dad slams his hand onto Tim's back.

And leaves it there.

Logically, Tim knows his dad meant it to be comforting or bolstering or something positive. Practically, however, the hand on Tim's back feels like a nest of fire ants, burning and crawling and spreading until they'll have covered his entire body.

This time, Tim doesn't even have a chance before he throws up all over Bruce Wayne's shoes.

"Timothy!" his mother yelps. Someone else screams. Tim starts to see black and feels himself falling.

"Please don't lock me in the basement," Tim whispers. The last thing he registers before passing out is the feeling of two strong arms cradling him. They hold him tight and safe and for once it doesn't make him want to climb out of his skin.

* * *

When Tim wakes up, slowly, he finds himself on a couch in someone's office. His shoes, jacket and tie have been removed and a heavy blanket tucked around him. Outside the office, his parents are fighting, but for once it doesn't sound like they're fighting with each other.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty." A glance mid roll shows Jason Todd sitting in an armchair reading a book.

"Morning, Robin," Tim replies, not thinking about it and too busy snuggling into the delicious pressure created by the blanket.

"This is criminal! A kidnapping!" Tim's dad yells, the first thing that's been understandable through the door. Tim pokes his head out in time to see the door open, Commissioner Gordon holding the handle. He also manages to catch a glimpse of his parents stalking off, absolutely livid and muttering among themselves. There’s the shadow of a bruise on his dad’s cheek.

"What's going on?" Tim asks.

"This is a mess," Commissioner Gordon sighs. He sits down on the floor near Tim's head and looks up at the ceiling for a moment. "Good to finally have a name to put to the face, kid."

Tim blushes. He's probably not going to be able to hang around the precinct when he takes photos of Batman anymore, now that Gordon knows who he is.

"You probably shouldn't have come tonight, if you were recently sick. But some other accusations have been made, so now there'll be a full investigation," Gordon says, still staring at the ceiling. Tim's thankful for it. He genuinely likes Commissioner Gordon, likes that he's always tried not to make Tim too uncomfortable even when he was trying to figure out where Tim was supposed to be in the middle of the night.

"What will happen to me?" Tim asks, feeling small.

"For tonight, you'll stay here with the Waynes. You'll probably also stay here through the investigation. I can't say what will happen after that. Sorry, kid. I know all this must be hard on you. Please try to stay where you're supposed to be for a while. It could be trouble for Mr Wayne if something happens to you." He gets up, groaning all the way, and leaves the office.

"If there's anything we can do to make your stay here more comfortable," Mr Wayne says, "Please let us know, Tim. We only want the best for you." Tim hadn't even known he was in the room. That's the power of being Batman, he supposes.

"We might have another problem, B," Jason says, snapping his book shut. "Kid called me Robin." Tim flinches and pulls the blanket over his head. He doesn't want to know what Batman does to people who figure out his identity. Maybe if he pretends to be asleep, they won’t ever have to talk about it.

Hopefully.  


* * *

  
Dick and Alfred are waiting for them when they get out of the courthouse. Almost three months of investigation followed by an entire week of court sessions and the ordeal is finally over.

"So how'd it go?" Dick chirps, bouncing and rocking on the balls of his feet.

"Jesus, Dick," Jason grumbles, "Baby Bird's exhausted. At least wait for him to get comfortable." He opens the car door and gestures for Tim to climb in.

Tim does, getting out of the sunlight and the heat for the cool darkness of the air conditioned car interior. Jason follows quickly after, wrapping Tim's weighted blanket around him and then holding Tim in his arms. Tim doesn't think he'll ever like skin to skin touch, but there's something about being wrapped in heavy fabric and held tight that makes him feel secure and like everything's going to be alright.

"Well?" Dick asks again. Still stupidly chirpy and hyper.

"I get to stay," Tim says, smiling brightly.

Dick goes to whoop in his celebration, but Bruce manages to wrap a hand over his mouth before he gets too loud.

"Just as long as you don’t go punching Jack Drake in public again. Or anyone else. Let's go home," Bruce says. "We can celebrate there."

"Home," Tim agrees, already half asleep in Jason's arms.

He used to think his parents’ house was home. It was the place he slept at night, a roof over his head and all his material needs met. But Wayne Manor is truly home, a place where he has people around him, people who take care of him. People who shower him in love and affection.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Bread and Roses_ , a poem by James Oppenheim. Thanks, Aque.


End file.
